


Cerberus Unbound

by twodwarves_oneeagle



Series: Cerberus Unbound [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Dark Fantasy, Gory werewolf shifting, Horror, M/M, Nature's Revenge, Post-Apocalypse, Shapeshifting, Surreal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-26 11:59:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twodwarves_oneeagle/pseuds/twodwarves_oneeagle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dean was five on the night Bad Things Happened."</p><p>A post-apocalyptic, nature's revenge world filled with old city relics and an assortment of monsters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of my return after writing after a massively long hiatus. 
> 
> I always said I would never write RPF, and yet, here I am. For some strange reason, this is the first thing to come to mind. Essentially, this is Hobbit RPF as far as the fact Richard, Aidan and Dean are here but don't be expecting anything in the way of recognizable worlds/events/etc. This is very much a sort of surreal, dark fantasy type shindig. It's sort of my first real thing where I've done my own world building for these puppies, but lets see how it goes. 
> 
> There may be some disturbing elements in here, and for that, I've labelled it mature.
> 
> Also, I'm pretty much up for anyone to message me or comment with any ideas or critiques they have of the series, you can also find me on tumblr at twodwarves-oneeagle.tumblr.com
> 
> I'm intending for Future Aidean, Future Turnitage and possible future Richard/Dean/Aidan story arcs and elements, so I've tagged it as such, but those sorts of things will end up coming later.

Dean was five on the night Bad Things Happened. He vaguely remembers being tucked into bed and a small tabby cat named Leo who’d come to bed with him, but the memories ebb and fade -- a tide across a beach of broken glass. 

His life isn’t about tabby cats or comfortable beds anymore. Those things don’t exist. Tabby cats are feral things that hiss and spit. As for beds? Dean knows of shelter in ruins and what sort of undergrowth is more comfortable than others. He knows the smell of rot and death and he knows Bad Things Happened. 

There are people, of course, that at first tried to ignore the night Bad Things Happened. 

Those people are dead.


	2. Skinning

The sun bleeds red over what used to be a city. Dean refuses to call it by name, it’s just a place that’s not a place anymore. 

He approaches slowly, cautiously, padding across the underbrush careful not to disturb anything. Dean picks his steps slowly, he knows what leaves crackle and what twigs snap underfoot and he avoids them all. He’s a pale shadow. He’s a wraith as he twists and winds his way into new territory. 

Jagged shards of rock poke up from under the greenery. The further he ventures forward, the more and more they peak up underneath the long, twisting grass. The tendrils catch along his stomach. Each and every blade seems to take the knee as he passes, each one exalting him. 

Dean is a powerful thing.  

There are very few of them left now, and he is a survivor among the dead; the companion of carrion. 

The rocks knit together until they create a path and something triggers in his mind. _Concrete_ , it says. _This was a road._ The further he ventures, the smaller he becomes. This is a graveyard of concrete monsters and human ingenuity. Dean almost remembers what human is like. 

He follows the road further and further into the city that’s not a city anymore. Wrought iron skeletons guard the street sides, sentries of a time before the Bad Things Happened.

Dean follows the yellow paint down the centre of the road for a block and a half, keeping his head tilted up to catch any smell or sound that’ll tell him he’s not alone. He catches his reflection far off in a window and he bares his teeth at it. He looks like a stray and his bared teeth turn into a crooked grin and a throaty chuckle.

After the Bad Things Happened, stories started cropping up about things in the relics of cities. Things that no one knew what they were, only that they were bad. 

He makes it another block before he hears something far to his right.

_Click, click, click._

All of Dean’s instincts scream at him to turn left, to get out. Dean is a powerful thing, but, he’s not the only thing out there.

He does what he’s prone to do: make a stupid decision. Dean veers right, his muscles taut and his senses strained. In the red of twilight, shadows cast long and horrible shapes across the crumbled concrete buildings. 

_Click, click, click._

Dean pads forward carefully, and he can feel his heart slowing rather than racing. He feels instincts slide into place; his mind is loading the gun that is his body. He inhales slowly and feels it from the tip of his nose down to his haunches.

The sound grows more insistent. 

 _Click, click, click_. 

Every step he takes, it grows faster. 

_Clickclickclick._

Dean falters for a second, thinks maybe he doesn’t want to disturb whatever calls the city its home. Maybe, he should just leave this memorial behind him. Maybe, for once in his life, he should leave well enough alone. 

But, that’s not how curiosity works. It may have killed the cat, but it won’t kill him. He thinks. He hopes. 

_Clickclickclick._

Another block is under his belt and it’s louder now, he can hear it echoing and bouncing around the concrete remains of a bygone era. 

_CLICKCLICKCLICK._

Rounding a corner a scream pierces the air, high and terrible. He has only a second before the spears of talons are reaching for him, snapping and trying to gobble him up into a crushing embrace. 

Dean scrambles to the left his and he can feel one of the talons grabbing at the space he used to be. The thing screams again in an unearthly wail that freezes the marrow in his bone but he pushes himself to move. 

The Raven wails and uses it’s wings to catapult itself forward, talons ever reaching. Just one of those rival the size of the head and Dean doesn’t want to even think about getting close enough to figure out just how little he compares to the corvid. 

It opens it’s wings and shadows extend around the buildings and the abandoned husks of cars that litter the street. 

Dean runs. And runs. And runs. He doesn’t look back, he just runs. 

The beating of the massive wings fills the airs and old rubble and debris picks up from the street.  A small tornado rages at the hand of the Raven. He darts in among the ruins through a broken window of one of the buildings. The opening is just big enough for him but he doesn’t stop. He darts through the building, it’s littered with old mannequins and women’s clothes. Behind him he can hear the solid collision of hard muscle on old stone. The window creaks and shatters a second and Dean’s scrambling to find an exit. 

He finds and shoulders through a door at the back of the old department store with some degree of difficulty. He’s almost forgotten how a push latch works and he can hear the screaming growing closer. When the door finally scrapes open, groaning from years of abandon, Dean slips out the open space. His shoulders slide back to accommodate the small escape route. Once he’s through his collar bone snaps back into place.

Dean weaves, serpentine, through the old monuments to humanity. The decaying buildings and crumbled storefronts all kneel to the plants that are slowly overtaking the stone ruins. Terra conquers. 

Winding through the city, Dean manages to lose himself more than once. His nerves are frayed and he’s constantly aware of the Raven, giant and beat, beat, beating those large, black wings. 

The city streets all look the same: broken lamps and lights that no longer perform. Metal husks of cars line the streets, watchful, waiting. The leaves and the dust slowly take them too, covering them in funerary garb. The city that’s not a city smells confusing, like nothing and everything. It’s disorienting. The longer he weaves and walks, concrete gives way to a garden of bones planted haphazardly on street corners. A cold, sick realization washes over Dean. He’s managed to wind his way back to the nest of the beast. 

It’s the smell that hits him first. The blood and the meat that overpowers everything else. He must have missed it when the beast was screaming at him. He looks up, cautiously, carefully. The Raven has not come home yet. Dean ventures forward, a scavenger. There’s a body the length of a store front impaled on an old telephone pole, the blood drawing ever downwards. It pools, sick and sweet. 

Crouching down beside the pool of blood that reaches outwards in all directions, Dean laps at it. Still warm. He unfurls and reaches up. The impaled beast above him with it’s bones broken and spine exposed still has meat to offer. He grabs the nearest limb in his teeth and pulls. A mouthful of flank comes off in his mouth and the taste blooms across his tongue. 

Life, it tastes like living. 

It’s only then does Dean realize the poor thing is still alive. Impaled and half torn open and its eyes are fluttering, it’s body heaving with small breaths. It looks like it could be an elk, but then, he’s heard stories of deer that grow to these sizes now. Anything is possible  since Bad Things Happened.  At the end of the day, deer or elk, food is food, and Dean sinks his teeth in for another bite. 

He’s greedy with his feeding, opportunistic. The Raven could be back at any time.

The thing kicks feebly, raising its head to look at Dean dolefully. 

It’s eyes are green, it’s pupils round. 

He pulls back, his mouth dripping with blood; hungry. They share a moment, his blue eyes boring into those green ones. Hauntingly green. Horribly, nauseatingly green. Dean wants to be ill. 

Dean can’t help but wonder who it used to be. As he watches, the deer’s skin starts to knit back together and it kicks in pain.

A scream shatters the moment. Dean flinches and looks to the sky, expecting the Raven to descend upon him. Instead, there’s a heavy crack two blocks and the ground shakes with impact. Dean licks at his chops, hungry and bloody but he pulls away from those green, green eyes in pain. 

This is how curiosity works, leave the known for the unknown. 

Dean gets low, and wears the shadows as a cloak. Slowly, he weaves forward. Blood is hot in the air and the smell of strangers creep in and tickle at his nose. He creeps and he crawls, belly to the asphalt until he can see the crumpled body of the Raven. It’s surrounded by towering wolves, their fangs pulling at the feathers to reveal the prize underneath. They’re a frenzy. One moment the Raven is whole, the next there’s bone’s peaking out from bite marks. 

Dean licks his teeth and can taste the blood of the deer. He can’t help but wonder what Raven tastes like.

In the centre of the pack, Dean spots something that makes his mouth wet. His curiosity piques. There’s a man: he’s tall and slender, practically stitched together with scars with a full, thick mane of brown curls. He looks more lupine than some of the wolves crouched on their haunches. He’s dressed in leather, and straps with a one armed jacket and big, thick boots. Perhaps what astonishes Dean the most is the holster at his side. Dean hasn’t seen a gun for easily a decade.  The man turns, looks directly at the shadows that Dean is hiding in. He holds his breath, stills his body and makes himself as small as possible, pressed in to cool stone of a corner building. 

The man shrugs and turns back to the fallen Raven. From his back he pulls a long, silver blade out of a scabbard and sheers some of the feathers. He also strips the beast of it’s talons and then finally, plunges the blade into the eye. The skull is so big, it doesn’t come out the other side. If there was any question that the Raven was dead, they’re certainly answered now. It takes a couple aborted tries before the man is able to pull his blade out of the creature. He wipes it on his jacket sleeve before returning it to his sheath. 

Dean is so focused on the man, so intently curious that he doesn’t hear someone coming until the hands are around his neck. He’s bodily thrown forward into the last dying vestiges of red light. 

The pack turns, snarling. 

The man turns, snarling. 

He’s not given enough time to get up and the weight of a man is centered heavily on his back between his shoulder blades.  “Aidan! Berserker.” He hear the man says above him. His voice is low, babbling brook smooth and canyon deep. It might be nice to listen to if his knee wasn’t forcing a space between his vertebra. 

“Bare his stomach,” Aidan orders and wolves are circling now, bored by the Raven and much more interested in the commotion. He holds up a hand and the wolves stop, dropping their heads low. Dean might be impressed if his heart wasn’t palpitating in his chest, trying to shatter it’s bone and marrow cage.

He steps up close and grabs Dean’s jaw. “I want to see his face. His real face.” 

Dean’s kicking and growling; the whole scenario doesn’t make sense to him. How? How did this happen? He’s heftier than a man, bigger, broader. Dean is a powerful thing, but he feels no power now. 

The man from behind him hauls him back, exposing his stomach. Dean tries to curl inward, to keep from being vulnerable. He fails. 

The blade comes out of the scabbard again, and there are voices screaming in Dean’s head: _you are going to die._

Now that he’s closer, the blade gleams red, red, _red._ It is sunset and sunrise forged into a steel trap. The sun dips beneath the last of the ruinous city and the only source of light before the stars is that sword, glowing and frightful. 

Dean doesn’t see it so much as he feels it. The blade is hot and it pierces just below his stomach and drags ever onwards. Bones crack, skin tears and he feels the world fall off his shoulders. He’s kicking and howling in agony and the wolves just watch, fixated on the man, ever cautious of the sword. The blade drags through ribs and stops just shy of his throat. “Take it off,” Aidan orders. 

He doesn’t understand, but he feels the hands that bound him moving, reaching inside him. They grab at the bloody edges and they pull. He sees layers to skin and fur fall to the ground as the second man rips at the wound. His howls become weaker, his voice breaking. But, still the hand grabs and tears. 

The world narrows to just that sword until even that extinguishes. 

Dean dreams of green, green eyes. He dreams of telephone poles and of Raven, screeching and squawking until it breaks until a thousand little birds. Every single one of them crawl across his skin, peck at his flesh and tangle in his hair. “Berserker,” They accuse, “Berserker, berserker.” The crows find a way into him, they crawl into his body through the gaping wound in his stomach, and they carver at his ribs _berserker, berserker, berserker._ He tries to pull them out but only gets handfuls of fur, and still, those too green eyes watch him. Those human green eyes.

Dean wakes screaming.

His eyes snap open and there in front of him is the head of a coyote, its eyes missing and jaw its broken. The body lays out behind it, flat and deflated. It takes a second to realize he doesn’t know where he is, but he’s in a room. There’s a dirty old window filtering morning light through it, he can see that there’s even a worn carpet under the pelt. 

“We had to cut you out.” 

Dean snaps his head towards the voice, and there is the man with the sword. _Aidan_ , his mind supplies. 

Aidan speaks again, “Sorry about that, Rich and I...well, I remember the first time I was skinned. Scares the living fuckin’ daylights out of you, yeah?” 

Dean doesn’t speak, just curls in on himself, his hands covering his face until he realizes one very important thing: he has hands. Dean has fingers. And he doesn’t have a snout. He touches down himself, he has a body without fur. He checks for a tail. There’s none. He gets down on his stomach and looks at the empty coyote pelt in front of him. “This...was me?” His voice is hoarse and tired from lack of use. 

“Yeah,” Aidan said, slumping into a chair in the corner of the room. “Some people don’t even know what’s happenin’ when we’re doin’ it, y’know? Too caught up in the skin they’re wearing. They don’t remember anything.” 

Dean looks down at himself and marvels, “I...I remember being human once.”


	3. Kenning

There’s a tree in the centre of all things. It’s wide enough that twenty men could fit inside it comfortably and it is unlike any tree that Dean has ever seen. 

Dean doesn’t know how many days he’s been with Aidan and his pack, but this is the first time he’s seen the tree. He doesn’t venture out of his room much, wolves stalk the hallways and he can’t tell if they’re people just waiting to be skinned or truly beasts. He thinks they must be people, or were people before the night Bad Things Happened. 

When Dean finally did leave his room, wandering around the haphazard enclosure he had been brought to, he found the tree.

He stands a few feet away from it and marvels.

The tree’s bark tells stories. He doesn’t know what it’s saying, but there are pictures twisting in cracks and crevices of the bark - truly moving. The bark ripples in colours too, starts with deep midnight purples and the higher it gets it starts to look like daylight, sun coming up over blue mountains. It has a glow like fireflies and foggy morning sun. It glows like Aidan’s sword. It glows like he didn’t know trees could. 

Dean has a wariness that’s settled over his shoulders, though curiosity tickles his nose. He swipes at it with the back of his hand. He wants to touch the moving lines, he wants to peel back the moving shell and see what’s underneath it. 

He keeps his hands to himself. Not because Dean’s gotten any better at controlling himself, but because he can feel the air in the room change. He’s not alone.

“It goes through all the levels, y’know.” Aidan comes to stand beside him and there’s something in his voice that’s nice to listen to. He has such command over words and Dean hasn’t spoken for so long. He nods his head instead. 

From the corner of his eye, he can see Aidan look between him and the tree. 

“It just sort of showed up one day. Fully grown. Really fucked with the lads.” Aidan laughs and shoots Dean a grin that blinds. When Dean didn’t answer, he kept going. “They don’t like coming near it. One of them touched it once, all we could smell for hours was singed fur.” 

Strangely, Dean’s desire to touch it doesn’t lessen. 

“Rich thinks it showed up for a reason, but I’ll be arsed if I know why.” Aidan chatters on and Dean is grateful for the noise while he builds up a line of sounds he wants to make at the back of his tongue. 

“Where are we?” Dean asks, looking away from the tree. The room is expansive and seems to have its own horizon, all made with concrete and cold stone. People’s belongings are everywhere and items scavenged from storefronts create makeshift rooms. The space is dim with long shadows that bicker over the things present. From what Dean can tell, they must still be in the city. 

Aidan shrugs. “Rich calls it a parking complex. Says that’s what it used to be before all that shit happened, or whatever. It’s supposed to be for those...” Aidan scrunches up his face as he thinks. 

“Cars,” Dean supplies. He remembers cars and exhaust. He remembers being in a car with other people and parking at the supermarket, though just vaguely. 

“Yeah, those things.” Aidan shrugs his shoulders, Dean can tell he won’t remember the word at all. He doesn’t care. “We’re down a level now.” Aidan points to the walls and the absence of windows. “You’re up on the main level, s’why you’ve got that window. The rest of it just goes down. Not a lot of light down here except this fuckin’ tree.”

Dean nods again and tucks his hands behind his back. “What was that thing you called me?” He asks, finally tearing his eyes off the tree and looking at Aidan. They lock eyes and Dean is determined not to lower his gaze. He notices the way the wolves do when Aidan walks by. They know who’s in charge. Dean was his own master. Dean was a powerful thing. He will not change that now. 

“You mean Berserker.” 

“Yeah, that.” Dean shifts uncomfortably; he remembers the thousand little ravens in his dream and he wonders absently if its truly carved onto his ribs. He wonders if Aidan sliced him open with that sword if he could read it, embossed in blood. 

“It’s just something we started callin’ people who were wearin’ different skins.” Aidan takes a step back and makes some grand motion with his hands that Dean can’t decipher, but he accepts it anyway. It seems like a good enough explanation as any. 

Aidan gives an exasperated sigh and another emphatic hand movement, “I’m shit at explaining this. S’probably better to talk to Rich.” Without preamble, Aidan turns and starts walking, careful to skirt around the scattered belongings of scavengers. He looks over his shoulder when he realizes the blonde isn’t pari passu in his exit. 

Dean tosses one last look back at the tree, and swipes the bottom of his nose with the heel of his hand. His fingers twitch with the desire to sink them into the bark and toss them open like shades. He falls instep with Aidan easily, and the light from the tree grows dimmer as they move away. 

Aidan leads him down into the lower levels of the parking garage the pack has repurposed for its home within the city. Eyes blink in and out of the darkness and a few of the wolves follow a a respectful distance behind them. Each and every one of them have noses that are almost on par with Dean’s sternum and not for the first time, he worries about teeth sinking into his flesh and being unable to protect himself. 

They hit the bottom of the stairs and the surrounding area is almost pitch black with the exception of the ethereal purple glow. The tree is here too and it seems to glow brighter than anywhere else in the complex. 

Even without the light, Dean suspects Aidan would be able to pick his way through the lot without trouble. His eyes reflect the glow and flash green for a second. Predator eyes. 

Aidan walks in without announcing himself - there’s a familiarity there that needs no introduction. He gravitates to Richard’s side and Dean notices the way he lays his hand across Richard’s arm as he leans in to speak. 

Dean remembers hearing birds and insects and the trees speaking to him, and now in this body he can’t even hear their murmured words they share.

They talk a while longer before Aidan motions him over. “Told Rich you just had a few questions for him, s’not really my thing. You can come find me after.” Aidan gives the other an affectionate squeeze on the back of his neck before heading off and Dean’s not entirely sure the last bit was meant for him.

“I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced, I’m Richard.” Dean looks him over and keeps his distance. He still remembers the pain he felt being pinned down and the way the knee wedged itself into his spine. 

Richard gives him a look that says he won’t continue unless the introductions go both ways. Begrudgingly, he gives up his name. “Dean.” 

“Do you remember your last name?” 

Dean shrugs and Richard seems to accept it. 

“Not a lot of use for them now, really.” 

If Dean could place it, he thought Richard sounded almost mournful. He furrows his brows and realizes this is a moment that is going to change his world perspective. He’s not entirely sure if he’s ready to welcome it. “How old were you?” He asks quietly. Dean was five. Dean remembers his tabby cat and toys. Dean remembers he used to have a little brother. 

“Eleven,” Richard says, “I was eleven when it all happened.” 

“When the Bad Things Happened.” Dean murmurs and shuffles closer. He still keeps an arms length between them and an eye on the exit. It’s precautionary, but it’s hard to feel threatened when Richard sits calmly bathed in that gentle purple glow from the tree.

Richard smiles and chuckles quietly, almost endearingly. “Yes, when the Bad Things Happened.” There’s a look that Dean catches that makes him feel like he’s being made fun of in a round about way. He bristles and changes the subject. 

“How old was Aidan?” 

Richard goes quiet and steeples his fingers in front of his face, thinking. “Aidan was born after the Bad Things Happened.” 

It sort of awes Dean, that anyone could be born after the Bad Things Happened. It just doesn’t seem possible. “But he’s...” Dean doesn’t know the word that he’s looking for. He goes quiet and just _looks_ at Richard, expecting him to understand. He does. 

“Aidan was born a wolf. His mother was a wolf, and then one day he just...decided he didn’t want to be one anymore, so he tore off all his skin and became a man instead.” 

“So, is he...what does that make him?” Dean furrows his brow and tries to process. 

Richard looks towards the glowing tree and lowers his steepled fingers to his lap. “The opposite of us, I suppose.” Dean silently implores Richard to continue, to feed him knowledge. He’s hungry for something that isn’t prey for the first time in years. “You and I...we started as human and then the Bad Things Happened. I don’t know exactly what happened, I don’t think anyone does, and suddenly, we were all wearing skins that weren’t ours in a world that shouldn’t have existed.” 

As Richard spoke, Dean found himself inching forward, leaning towards his words to devour them. “We’ve been calling them Berserkers, that’s what you wanted to know, right? What a Berserker was?” Dean nodded quickly, his head bouncing. “It’s just us, I guess. Men wearing the wrong skin, locked in bone cages that weren’t our own.” He stops and fixes Dean with a look before laughing, “It sounded a lot better than werewolf. It just sounds so silly, don’t you think? I even watched an American Werewolf in London before everything happened. I figured this was better. We’re not really...that, anyways.” 

“Can we go back?” Dean finishes his question with a gesture. 

“We’ll go back.” Richard answers definitively. “We all turn back. That’s not hard. The hard part is being a man afterwards.” He looks down, and his expression is undecipherable. 

They talk a little longer before Richard excuses himself. He offers Dean his space, allows him to get acquainted with all the treasures from the Old World. Richard even laughs, says maybe Dean will find something that makes him think of home. 

Dean occupies himself with the knick knacks and finds particular interest in the great big chair Richard’s hauled down here for himself. But, when Richard leaves to go up the stairs, Dean is right back to staring at the tree. 

It pulses like it knows he’s there. 

For a second, Dean falters and his nose itches. Curiosity dictates that he has to touch - so he does. 

He reaches out and strokes his fingers along the twisting pathways in the bark. The pads of his fingers heat and the glow crawls up his fingers, lighting up the lines in his palm. There’s a whole map of his life, a twilight shimmer on his palm.

After a second, Dean adds a second hand to the tree and a twin map lights there as well, this one in the colours of summer dawn. He thinks perhaps he should look, but he doesn’t. Instead, he digs into the curves of the bark and yank it back viciously. Wooden fireflies fall to the floor under his ministrations, shards that can never be put back again. Dean pulls and yanks at the tree until he has a space the size of his hand ripped open.

There under the bark are two green eyes, staring up at him. 

Dean blinks.

The eyes never do.


	4. Bantling

The rains starts late into the night. Dean doesn’t know that. The last thing Dean knows is that he saw green, green eyes. Now, he knows someone is waking him with a hand to his shoulder. He cracks his eyes open one at a time. 

There’s a figure hunched over him, big, blurry and in his space. Dean blinks once, twice, and on the third time it’s a face that comes into focus. Aidan is there looking over him with this concern flashing like high beams across his eyes. 

“You alright, mate?” He asks, his face inches from Dean’s. He doesn’t know the meaning of personal boundaries. “Rich was worried when you didn’t come up after a while. We came down and found you like this.” Aidan motions to the rest of his body crumpled against the concrete, eyes never leaving Dean’s face. 

“M’fine.” Dean mumbles, trying to push himself up from the floor. 

Richard’s deep voice sounds from behind him and there’s a renewed firmness from the warm hand on his shoulder. He presses gently to keep the younger in place. “Don’t. Let me check over you and make sure you’re not hurt.” 

Dean opens his mouth to argue and both Richard and Aidan give him a _look_. It’s the type of look that makes Dean think of mothers - and in this instant, he knows he’s the obstinate child; he shuts his mouth again and lets Richard do whatever it is he wants to do. 

With gentle precision, Richard works his way over Dean’s body, pressing down over his arms and chest checking for fractures or breaks. He keeps having to push Aidan away as he sticks his head in Richard’s way, doing his own curious examination. 

When Richard nudges Aidan away for the fifth time, he huffs and finally takes a hint. He sits back on his heels, but the subservience to Richard’s whims doesn’t last long. Instead, he shuffles down the length of Dean’s body and begins to examine him from the feet up while Richard is still fingering cursory pressure into Dean’s arms and chest, searching for injury. Aidan mimics for a while, using the pads of his fingers to press down at random before growing bored and walking his fingers up Dean’s legs. 

Aidan reaches Dean’s hands first and takes immediate interest, picking one up and examining it. “Rich,” He says slowly, quietly, and when Richard doesn’t promptly respond he tries again. “Richard, I think you should see this.”

Manhandling Dean’s arm across his body, Aidan shows Richard the flat of his palm. Little black lines carves shapes into the landscape of Dean’s hands. Crawling out from underneath each of his fingernails, the lines weave intricate patters across the inner swell of his knuckles and down across his palms. Undaunted by the wrinkles and lifelines already present, the black draws its own patterns across the living canvas.

Dean yanks his hand back before Richard could get a better look, shoving himself up from the floor. He feels dizzy, claustrophobic with the two of them crowding up into his space. Just days ago he seen Aidan kill and now he’s fawning over him with concern. It’s enough to give Dean whiplash. The wariness, he thinks, is understandable. 

He pulls himself up onto his feet and cradles his hand close to his chest. The bone ripples under his skin as he fists his fingers together. He doesn’t look. Doesn’t want to. “I’m _fine_ ,” Dean says firmly, backing away from the two of them. 

With the tree at his back, Dean’s careful to give it a wide birth. He thinks of green: green forests, green seas, green eyes. 

Aidan looks like he wants to pursue it, but Richard stills him with a hand to his wrist. “What happened?” He asks, voice measured. 

“I don’t know!” Dean takes another step, away from the ethereal glow that’s licking at his spine. “I was looking at the tree. I...” He has to stop and think about it for a second, what did happen? He licks his lips before continuing. “I touched it. Took some of the bark off. And...” He stills for a moment, teeth worrying the inside of his cheek. “And then you two were waking me up.” 

Aidan opens his mouth and again Richard cuts him off, silencing him. “Where did you take the bark off?”

“What do you mean where?” Dean turns to shove his hands in the direction of the tree and sees nothing. “Right there.” He finishes lamely. “It was right there, I made a hole. Right _there_.” He points his finger at it accusingly, not understanding. 

Aidan’s brows furrow and the confusion shows, not only in his face, but in the way he holds his body; his head cants to the side. This time, Richard doesn’t have to silence him. He’s speechless. 

“Well,” Richard starts, his voice still levels of control, undecipherable. Dean’s not sure if he’s thankful for it, or put on edge. “Stranger things have happened.”

Dean feels so out of his depth at the moment, it’s painful. He doesn’t really remember how to interact with people anymore. Or maybe, he never really knew how. When he was five he’d whine and be picked up and coddled for his trouble. At least he knows better than to take those heavy handed approaches. But, this....

Richard and Aidan’s concern for him only serves to concern him. 

“I...sorry.” Dean looks down at his feet and instinct scratches inside his skull. 

_Get out._

_Run._

He does just that. With a few quick steps, he skirts around Aidan and Richard, hitting the steps for the upper levels hard. He takes them at a run, nearly clipping off the noses of the wolves that come to investigate the sound as he passes. 

Dean doesn’t stop until he’s on the ground level, and even then, he doesn’t stop. It’s been days since he’s been outside and he just needs out. He needs to get away. If only for a little bit. 

It’s strange and it almost knocks him on his ass when he realizes he plans on coming back. For as long as Dean can remember he’s wandered in and out of places and away from other animals. This tether is new. He isn’t sure he likes it, either. 

Turning a corner out of the parking complex, Dean heads down the street. The concrete is cold, wet and splinters of stone catch under the balls of his feet. Dean winces but carries on, no destination in mind but _out_. 

He covers a lot less ground in this human form. Dean feels disconnected. Alone. Maybe the skin hadn’t been his proper one, but, he felt the world while wearing it. He could smell the grass, the decay, could hear the birds and the chirping of insects. Now, the ruinous city is a new kind of still. The dark takes on shades of black he could only dream of before. The rain has stopped but the clouds still roll over the buildings, a thick blanket over the sky. 

Dean walks until the unease and tightness lift from his skin. It takes only a second to realize he’s in an area of the city he’s never been before. The buildings divide off into a wide circle and the further up the road he walks, they open onto a large park. 

The trees and grass have taken back any modifications to the park; the swing set raises from the ground, as if struggling not to be consumed from by the earth itself. The jungle gym is engulfed with flowers and plants. It’s a small, losing struggle - and soon those things will be gone. 

Most of the park is just green space, meant to be open for people’s enjoyments. At least, before the Bad Things Happened. It’s just empty and lush and full. Terra triumphs. 

From the corner of his eye, something shining catches Dean’s eye. He chooses his steps carefully as he walks through the tall grass. It doesn’t take the knee for him. It wades close to his body, swarms him, and Dean begins to rethink his position on being a _powerful thing_. 

The thing begins to take shape the closer Dean gets to it. It’s a person. Or, like everything in this park, it used to be. Saddling up to it he examines it closely. He’s of a height with the person who’s not a person, they’re gold, still and slick with rain. They don’t move. They don’t see. 

Statue. 

Dean walks around the thing and reaches out to touch it. He can feel the grooves of fabric and the bumps of seams under his finger tips. But, most of all he feels the cold. Dean spots another one and another. The first is bent over an invisible counter holding a ladle. The other is sat on an invisible chair, it’s hands outstretched and resting on something cannot see. There are statues stretching, statues frozen mid-step. They line up in arhythmic patterns across the park and one by one Dean moves to examine them all. 

Every so often his mind supplies a scene to go with a statue. Shopping for groceries. Playing ball. Cooking. One statue is even picking his nose. They’re relics of a former life, seemingly placed at the core of the city with interminable care. No, not placed. Planted. These people are gold flowers in a memorial garden. A garden of gold. A garden of dead. 

Finishing up one aisle, Dean turns to scale another. He stops, breathes. Something isn’t right. 

He looks to the statue he’s just passed, and finds it’s looking back at him with smooth, blank eyes. Dean can see himself reflected it the metallic surface, and its the first time he’s seen himself, _really_ seen himself since being skinned. He’d stop to examine himself but his instincts are screaming an encore of their earlier performance. 

_Get out._

_Run._

So he does. 

Dean runs and weaves through the rows upon rows of golden statues. From the corner of his eyes he can see them all leaning for him slowly, dropping their eternal tasks to make one last, mad grab for him. Trying to grab a life among the ruins. 

One of them catches the hem of the shirt he had adopted as his own and Dean nearly strangles himself as he comes to a sudden, jerking stop. 

The statue is a child, hanging above it in a way that makes Dean’s head hurt is a solid, heavy balloon. The hem of his shirt is caught firmly in its little, pincer grip. 

Slowly, ever so slowly the golden child looks up at him, it’s joints aching and creaking. Metal expanding and contracting. It looks at Dean and those blank eyes roll back into its head and in its place are green, green eyes staring back at him. 

“Dean,” It says, its voice cavernous. There’s a thousand voices layered upon each other, speaking at the same time, their timing slightly off from one another. “D-d-d-dean.” It says, pulling him in by the hem of his shirt. “You have somewhere to be.” 

The statues around him are encroaching closer, circling him as he used to circle wounded rabbits. “Someone to see,” Chorus the other statues. 

“You’re going to be late,” Chimes the statue of a woman hanging laundry. 

“You should never have come,” Adds another despondently. The statues start chattering amongst themselves, and the silence that had been so engulfing has turned into a swarm of waspish voices, arguing over one another. Dean catches snippets here and there.

“He should stay.”

“He needs to leave.”

“He has an appointment to keep.”

“Enough!” The statue holding him shrieks. The garden falls deathly silent once more. “You have somewhere to be, Dean. We can take you there. We can show you where you need to be.” 

“No,” Dean shakes his head vehemently. His instincts haven’t stopped hammering inside of his head.

“You have to come,” The child adds, pulling sharply on his shirt as incentive. 

_Rrrrriiiippppp._

The child is left holding a sizeable chunk of Dean’s shirt; he doesn’t wait for an instant, but starts run, run, running. As he darts between statues, the grass tries to wrap around his ankles, tries to keep him there and he’s tearing out chunks as he runs.

Dean doesn’t stop when he hits the concrete. He doesn’t ever look back, the nagging fear in the back of his head that he’ll turn and see those green eyes staring him down. 

He reaches the parking complex in record time and slides home through the door. 

The first thing he sees is Aidan crouched on the ground, tangled up in a pile of wolves. His arms are around them and his legs criss crossed over the haunches of another. A third is curled around his head and it’s such blind affection it almost hurts to look at it. 

Aidan catches sight of him and smiles, “Didn’t think you’d come back.” 

For the first time, in a long time, Dean feels inexplicably safe. “Yeah, well...I did.” 

“M’glad you did.” Aidan motions him over and Dean gingerly steps forward. The one wolf that has the gall to growl at him gets a swift smack upside the head from Aidan. “Oi,” He grunts and it goes silent, ears back in apology. 

He waves his hand again, beckoning Dean down into the thrall of fur and limbs. Dean hesitates on the edge of the pile but eventually takes a step in, careful not to tread heavily over any fur or limbs. The wolves make a spot for him beside Aidan. “Didja find whatcha needed out there?” Aidan asks, absently scratching behind the massive ear of one of his wolves. 

Dean shrugs noncommittally, wondering if Aidan knows of all the things that fall under his dominion in the city. Or, if there are things that escape even his knowledge. “I found enough,” He answers shortly. A smaller, salt and pepper wolf takes a chance and lays their head across Dean’s lap. 

“I think that means welcome to the family.” Aidan laughs a bit, and Dean gives a small, secret smile. He almost remembers family.


	5. Changeling

The realization that Dean has been without food for days comes as a hard, crashing revelation. It astonishes him, truly, that he managed to forget something so integral to his life prior to being found by Aidan and his pack. He doesn’t feel any hunger, there’s no ravenous claws twisting at his stomach. The only time he’s never known hunger is immediately after eating, blood still warm on his jaw. This is strange and new territory, and he can’t remember if a human body is supposed to be like this or not.

Richard finds Dean rolling his hands over his stomach searchingly, his brows drawn low over his eyes. 

“Not hungry?” Richard asks lightly; he asks in a voice that suggests he already knows the answers. 

Dean looks up at him and nods, “No, I’m not.” He presses the pads of his palms against the flat of his stomach again, eyes trained on Richard. “I should be. I barely remember the last time I ate.” 

“We don’t eat,” Richard answers. Dean falters and sticks him with a look, like how can he say that as if it’s the most natural thing in the world? 

Richard stoops and takes a seat beside Dean on the cool concrete floor. He’s gotten far too used to sitting without cushioning. “I mean, we don’t eat when we’re human. At least, I don’t. Aidan doesn’t either.” 

A moment for Dean to process the information comes and goes until slowly he’s nodding his head. He doesn’t bother asking why - as much as Richard seems to know, it feels like one of those things that just isn’t meant to be known. “So, we just never eat?” Dean asks, the concept mystifying to him. 

“No, we eat. It’s we only eat when we go back, wear the other skin again.” Richard reaches to brush something off Dean’s shoulder and he tries his best not to weave out from under his touch. They catch eyes and that seems far more intimate to Dean than physical contact. He looks away. 

“This...not eating thing isn’t...bad?” Dean rolls his hands in a gesture trying to articulate in a way he can’t with words.

Richard shrugs and looks forward rather than at Dean. He appreciates the reprieve. “It just makes you hungrier when you do turn back. It’s best usually to change, hunt and eat more than you have to, and then get skinned.” Dean has the suspicion that Richard is still watching him out of the corner of his eye.

“Or, you can just stay a wolf, if you really wanted.”

“Is that what the other wolves have done?”

Richard nods slowly, “Some. Other’s I’ve never seen human. But, the bigger ones are Berserkers, only, they chose to stay a wolf after turning back. They didn’t want to go through the skinning again. Or, they just preferred being that to human.” 

It’s an idea to entertain, Dean thinks. Though, he keeps his mouth shut about it and picks at a fray in his clothes that don’t fit quite right. 

“It’s coming up, you know. Going back.”

Dean furrows his brow, “Coming?”

“Yeah.” Richard looks back at him, his eyes gentle and his voice a comfortable lull. “Every new moon. A couple more days and we’ll turn. You can choose then if you want to go through the skinning again or not.”

Dean feels the weight of a decision unmade settle on his shoulders. Physically, he tries to shake it off, but he knows it won’t go until he chooses. “

I can take you hunting, if you like. On the new moon.” Richard suggests, pulling himself up from the ground. Dean follows him up from the concrete floor and nods. “Oh, good. I’ll tell Aidan, then. Do you want to come?” 

With a shake of his head, Dean steps in the opposite direction. Richard gives him this look and it almost seems disappointed in him. One more thing that he tries to shake off physically. He succeeds only minimally when he looks away from Richard’s crisp blue eyes. 

All it takes is a few long steps and Richard disappears into the belly of the parking complex, gone to find Aidan. Dean wonders about them. He wonders how they met, what they talk about together. He wonders how they touch, if its just those light, familiar gestures he’s seen or if they’re more intimate. Dean wonders and wonders until he doesn’t want to anymore, and even then, he does. 

He presses his hands to his eyes and sees colours bloom and wilt behind his eyelids. 

For the next few days, Dean sees Richard only in passing. A look here, a nod there. Every time Dean wants to ask him something, he’s gone before he gets his mouth open at all. Aidan, on the other hand, has become incredibly skilled at persistently finding and invading upon Dean’s personal space. 

Aidan has, in recent days, picked up the habit of touching Dean when he speaks to him. He’ll rest his hand on Dean’s elbow, or sling an arm over his shoulder as they talk. There’s a hundred and one little excuses Aidan has come up with to touch him, and strangely, Dean sort of likes it - he takes a slow and persisting warmth from it, a certain cautious happiness. A thing he wants, but doesn’t want to want. 

There’s a home in Aidan’s arms, and it’s not only his. The wolves seek it, Richard seeks it, and Aidan, gives, gives, gives. 

Dean keeps looking for the caveat, the rot hidden in the fresh meat. 

A little before sundown Aidan comes to him, sword strapped to his back; he finds Dean in front of the tree on one of the lower levels. “It looks sort of blue today, yeah?” Aidan asks, shoehorning his way into a conversation. 

“Mhmm,” Dean mumbles, “Yeah. Kind of.” 

“You still have the marks from it?” Aidan asks, trying to coax more than monosyllabic answers. Instead, Dean hides his hands and says nothing. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.” Aidan supplies after a few moments of awkward silence. “Do you remember putting on your other skin? Rich says he does. Y’know, the first time.” 

Dean just shakes his head, no. 

“Probably not gonna like it.” Aidan warns before changing subjects as easily as he changes expressions, “I heard you’re gonna go hunting with Rich, that’s good. M’thinking of takin’ the pack hunting elsewhere. Just so, you can get used to being back in that skin and all.” Aidan trails off, watching the bark swirl and animate its own silent stories. 

Aidan keeps chattering and Dean’s lost track of what he’s saying mostly, watching the tree and thinking of the way Aidan dragged the hot blade down his chest the first time they met. His chest echoes with a phantom ache. 

“Is skinning always that bad?” Dean asks, cutting Aidan off. He’s only given a little shrug which does little in the way of answering. 

“Rich tells me it gets better, but, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Dean snorts, “How do you not know?” 

Aidan shrugs like the question’s of no consequence. Sometimes, Dean thinks there’s very little Aidan considers to be of consequence. “I don’t change. It’s different for me. I stay human, then when Rich’s done hunting, I bring him back.” Aidan looks at Dean and they both seem a little uncomfortable from the unspoken question in the air. “I...” Aidan starts and lets the suggestion die in his throat. 

Dean steps up instead, “Do you want to bring me back too?” This time, it’s he’s with the heavy gaze and Aidan’s eyes don’t quite reach his. 

“Yeah,” He admits quietly, “I do.” 

They both share a quick look between them before letting the shifting bark entertain their attention instead. The ball’s in Dean’s court and he knows it. It’s his call. Dean has a power in this decision that’s unlike anything he’s known. It’s subtle and quiet. But power all the same.

“Then do it. Bring me back too.” Dean doesn’t look away from the tree and he doesn’t think Aidan does either. But, at his side, Aidan sneaks his fingers through his pinky and holds gently. They stand like that for what could be minutes or hours, Dean doesn’t know. Time seems to lose traction in the wake of the tree with Aidan and him linked so thinly together. 

Aidan reacts to Richard coming before he’s even visible, but he doesn’t drop Dean’s hand. His face lights up contagiously; even the tree flashes pink at Aidan’s smile. 

“We should head out, Aid. All the others are already out there waiting.” Richard motions towards the stairs and doesn’t seem to bat an eye at the way Aidan tugs Dean forward and gives his hand a generous squeeze before dropping it. 

Dean dogs behind Richard and Aidan, the stairs wide enough for only two bodies. Somehow, they still manage to spill out of the doors at the same time, regardless. 

The rest of the wolves pad restlessly in a crescent before Aidan and Richard. The electricity of hunger is thick in the air and even Dean - who has been sated for weeks - can feel it. 

Darkness descends in slow waves over the city, one by one the eyes of the wolves become reflective, flashes of light flickering in a slowly growing darkness. Aidan’s eyes flash like amber in the coming night.

Too quickly for Dean to see where the movement started, Aidan and Richard pull together. Aidan’s hands are at Richard’s face and he’s tugging him down to his level, rewarding the acquiescence of height with a long and desperate kiss. When they break apart, Richard rests his forehead against Aidan’s. 

“I’m coming back.” 

Aidan peppers Richard’s lips with a few short, chaste kisses. 

Dean forces his eyes away; the tenderness wrenches something in his chest, he’s sure could crack his ribs wide open from it. Their moment lasts a few minutes longer until the moon begins to peek over the concrete mountains of the city limits. 

Twin yells of agony rise from both Richard and Dean. But where Richard stays standing, Dean’s already on his knees. He can feel something, scratch, scratch, scratching inside of his chest. Something inside that wants to get out. 

From the corner of his eye he can see Aidan cutting Richard out of his skin; long, thick slabs of skin fall away to reveal black tufts of fur wet with the yolk of a newborn and so much blood. 

Dean doesn’t get the luxury of a quick slice.

His bones shift and body expands until it tears new seams into his skin, his skin webbing as it tries to hold onto itself. His fingers curl in on themselves and claws rip through his knuckles until an entire paw pulls out of the broken mess that used to be a hand.

He manages only a strangled yell as his jaw breaks and hangs loosely before his throat. The thing - _coyote_ \- inside him wants out. From inside his mouth a snarling maw pushes forward, any resistance is eaten away by bloody fangs. 

When the coyote steps out in full, golden fur bloodied like a wet sunset, the remains of Dean’s body is a crumpled husk. A few of the wolves from the pack step forward, picking over the abandoned sections of skin for any meat worth eating. They circle around the same of Richard’s remains, cast aside in favour of this hulking black beast. 

Richard’s new body is slender and his legs long and elegant. He stands taller and thinner than any other wolf, his ears broader and fur blacker. His nose hangs over Aidan’s shoulder, a creature of towering proportion. Aidan strokes through his massive mane and brushes stray, left over bits of flesh to the ground. 

For something so large, Richard noses and nuzzles against Aidan with surprising tenderness. He licks Aidan, and Aidan in turn licks his nose. 

Dean marvels at Richard, this graceful, wise master while he feels ever inch a stumbling pup. Carefully, he flanks the elder’s side and brushes his maw against Richard’s shoulder. When he garners no response, he rubs himself with growing urgency against the larger. The days and days without hunger or food have returned with a vengeance and Dean needs to hunt. 

The second time yields better results and with a timeless ease, Richard turns tail and leads Dean into the furthest point of the city, while Aidan rounds up his wolves to take the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is curious, I was looking at a Maned Wolf when I was writing the description for Richard's shifted form. Only, I picture him as a melanistic one - or, all black. :3


	6. Digging

Providence lurks in the confines of the city, lurking in abandoned doorways and hiding under canopies. There’s so much Dean wants to explore, wants to see for himself but instead he follows dutifully at Richard’s side. Their claws click in tandem on the old, cracked cement.

For every turn that Richard takes, Dean sees something he hadn’t before. There are creatures, silver and skittish or flowers that get up and move every so often. There are scents and sounds and sensations Dean had all but forgotten were possible. Moments where he almost wants to forgo his hunger and instead wants to allow himself to be swallowed by the womb of the city. 

But, Richard has an agenda. Any time Dean scavenges and investigates with a few exploratory sniffs, Richard would be there, tugging gently at his ears; he herds him in the proper direction. 

The night is not so young when they come across the steps. In the middle of the sidewalk, shadowed by the concrete skeletons of the city, the stairs head down, down, down. Dean remembers stairs with carpeting and sock feet. He remembers stern, wooden stairs before stages. But these...he backs away with distrust. 

In theory, these stairs are no worse than the ones at the parking garage. But, he can’t help but feel like walking forward to take them would be walking into a giant maw, waiting to swallow the two of them whole.

Richard noses at his withers and tugs gently at the apex of his ears. With a low, trying grunt, Dean concedes and he takes the first move towards the low descent. 

Their passage is marked with decaying posters from before Bad Things Happened; faces of dead people, relics of dead things - all frozen and unaware of their own mortality. Richard brushes passed them as if the hundred printed eyes aren’t following them down. Dean stops, puts his snout to the nose of a woman flat on the wall. Her features are faded now, the teeth gone from her smile. When the Bad Things Happened and Dean was still young, he had sought out faces like these, plastered on the remains of civilization. They had given him comfort until one day they hadn’t anymore. He can’t help but wonder if that’s the day he started forgetting things like ice cream and bedside stories. 

Dean remembers them now, more, at least, than he did before. He doesn’t know if it’s better or worse. 

When he stays too long at the nose of the poster, Richard is at his side encouraging him forward again. It’s the last distraction Dean has. A platform extends ever outwards on both sides of the stair mouth. A thick yellow line marks the edge and Richard easily by passes it, his body almost ethereal while he makes the jump from platform to the ground beneath it. Dean, on the other hand paces back and forth at the lip of the edge, trying to decide the best way to descend. 

When Richard barks gruffly, Dean goes for the jump, his paws come up off the concrete and catch unceremoniously on nothing as he tries to stop himself. Richard’s bark was not one of welcome, was not one of ‘follow me’, but something wary.

He pauses in the wake of Richard’s warning hearing for the first time a skittering of claws on cement along the dark expanse of the tunnel. The rustle of slow, laborious movement. With the sound of oncoming creatures, Dean can only think _food._

Dean bays excitedly, hunger a rolling wave inside his stomach. _Weeks_ , it’s been weeks since he’s tasted blood and flesh, weeks since he danced with the heavy fullness of food. He’s been satiated, but not _full._

The big, black wolf paces along the underside of the platform, creating a barrier each and every way Dean paces. An aggrieved cloud settles in over his shoulders; Dean is a powerful thing. He’s in his other skin, his form with long mastered control of the world in which Bad Things Happened, but yet, Richard won’t let him hunt. His wariness is a cage, locking Dean in at every turn. 

Skittering, scratching, clicking, it grows and intensifies, echoing across the cold cement tunnel until the sound births the appearance of a mole. Its head rivals the size of Richard’s paw and in one quick snap of movement the wolf’s teeth have shut vice-like around its neck. Blood blooms black on Richard’s fur with long red petals opening onto his fangs. In three bites, the mole is gone but the noise continues. 

It does not take long for another one to surface from the dark and the gigantic wolf nabs that one as well, swiftly and silently. Instead of devouring it, however, the second body is presented to Dean on the platform, nudged forward with the his long, angled snout.

Dean wants to take insult that he is being _fed_ rather than hunting, but his hunger trumps pride and he snatches the dead mole and drags it further from the platform’s edge. He settles in to eat but watches the other wolf over the remains of the kill. 

His long legs carry him, his body bobbing and flowing effortless and silent back and forth before the platform. Dean’s never seen a wolf that holds itself with poise; perhaps he is not a wolf at all, but only looks as such. 

Another mole comes his way before he is done the first, but regardless Dean inches forward and drags it back to the corner he’s established for himself. He doesn’t like eating around others, instinct says he’s vulnerable. He doesn’t know Richard well enough to trust opening up that much. 

As the moles keep crawling through the deep and narrow passage of the city’s cement veins, Dean loses interest in watching Richard eat his kill, and eventually loses interest in even watching him hunt. He finishes the first mole, leaving a carcass of bits he doesn’t like and a cradle of bones neatly tucked together. 

He hesitates to start the second, hearing the _scritch scratch_ grow louder and rounder in the darkness. His ears flick uneasily; Richard mirrors his tension, haunches raised and body bowed tight. 

The manmade cavern they’ve found begins to quiver under foot and the sheer volume of moles that poor out of the tunnel’s mouth increases from an easy dribbling pace of one here, one there until there are tens and hundred rodents falling over themselves to get out of the darkness. 

Richard scrambles to get up on the platform, silent even as Dean can smell new blood in the air; Richard’s been cut by the scrape, scrape, scraping claws of a hundred of escaping moles. 

Antsy, Dean pads back and forth until Richard is at his side, the quiver now a rumble; the stones and loose shards of debris shake and jump in the wake of whatever it is that’s coming. The bones Dean had so neatly arranged celebrate the coming thing. 

A sickening thud-thud starts up, quiet at first. _Far_ , Dean thinks. It doesn’t last long. 

_Thud-thud._

_Thud-thud._

_THUD-thud._

Heartbeat.

Dean is bolting for the foot of the stairs when the roof of the cave opens up with a sickening crack worse than any bone break he’s ever heard. Stones fall between them as long, skinny claws push through the cement followed by the first fleshy pink feeler, then another and another until the nose of a rodent Dean’s never seen pushes through.

He stops, trapped between freedom and this overwhelming and alarming need to help Richard. Dean’s paws are already on the first few steps when he turns back around. He’s never felt this desire before. Dean’s a _survivor_ , he’s conquered the world where Bad Things Happened on his own. But now...he thinks back to the desperation in the kiss Aidan and Richard had shared, and the need to help twinges in his chest again. 

The rodent is slowly pushing itself through the hole in the cement above them its nose twitching and feelers wriggling sickeningly around it. Small enough to dart around the rodent, he makes it to Richard’s side, his paws slick from a hundred small cuts along his paws and legs. 

Dean whines for him, a voice to that pain for Richard has not - and will not make one. Nudging his head against the thick black fur, leaning all his weight into the older wolf to push him to the side where the least debris has fallen between them and the door. When Richard begins moving, an obvious limp in his step, Dean darts the other way. He knows he can get by if he’s small enough, but for all that Richard is in this skin, he is anything but small. 

He yips and screams and the claws reach, reach, reach forward for him. The feelers follow, short and twitchy in his direction leading the blind beast on. For all the ground the mole takes, Dean retreats back, aware he’s quickly running out of platform. 

Louder and louder he barks and shrieks until he can see the silvered end of Richard’s tail disappear up the staircase. About to dart forward and follow the other up, the manmade cavern shakes again with the weight of the rodent pushing itself forward. Both its paws are free now and Dean can see the long, bucked teeth underneath the ever moving feelers. 

With one more step back, his paw goes over the edge of the platform, landing on nothing. Momentum is with him and his body slips back over the edge his claws catching only on the slick, yellow tiles that cover the edge. Dean lands on the river of mole bodies, claws nicking at his fur and skin, the impetus of the mob carrying him into the dark mouth of the tunnel. 

The tunnel rumbles and through it echoes the slap of a heavy body hitting the ground. Dean stretches his head back, trying to see the exit, instead all he catches are the claws of the great, blind beast snapping forward and spearing the moles. The moles do not die silently this time; Richard killed swiftly, kindly. 

This death is all screams. 

Screaming, screaming, until it stops. 

There is no going back that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sort of a short chapter after such a long hiatus, but I really wanted to get something out for you guys! I'm sorry this has taken so long! D: /terrible author is terrible.


	7. Tracking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm sure a lot of you are noticing it's taking me a while to write chapters. I'm sorry to keep you waiting! I often have issues writing in the winter, but more than that I've sort of been trying to reconcile writing a RPF for the first time; at first i was really confident, and now I'm not so sure how I feel working on an RPF in regards to respect to the actors involved. I think I've largely overcome that and will continue to write the story.

Sound tightens in all around him as he’s funneled further into the blackness by a river of hundreds of bodies. The screaming has stopped but he can still hear the far away _thud-thud_ of the mole against the curved walls. 

Every time he tries to step up above the crush of rodents, the one he is standing on movies and he falls back beneath the crest of bodies. Everything is so tight, crowded and crushing Dean feels the first stab of worry when his lungs ache from a shortness of breath. 

The blackness has swallowed all in the tunnel; he can only hear and feel and smell, and every since is screaming at him, too much. Too much weight against his sides, the sounds of a thousand claws echoes too loudly in his head, rattling around his skull. He can hear the pulse in his ears, racing, racing, racing, but it gets him nowhere. 

Smell is worst of all, he tries to suck in breath, feed his starving lungs against the underbelly of the rodents, but what little he gets is tainted by the smell of blood, sweat, he can smell fear and death. 

Overbearing, overwhelming. 

How far he travels in this limbo, Dean doesn’t know. Could be a few feet, could be miles in this current of bodies. Time and space slip away, become nothing. It’s just a cocoon of this frantic, fearful retreat. 

Pack mentality. Run or you will die. The moles don’t think of the number of them that die from this bloody retreat. 

When the air becomes stale, recycled and hot around him and his chest goes from aching to burning, Dean makes one finally attempt to push to the surface. His paws find the bottom of the river he’s stuck within and pushes up, using the ever moving bodies as stepping stools. He acts quickly, never keeping his weight stationary. 

Dean doesn’t fight the river but moves with it to push himself to the surface. His snout breaks through first, the rest of his head following suit. Greedily, he sucks in breath after breath his chest heaving. 

For the first time since going under, Dean opens his eyes no longer afraid he might get a wayward claw to the eye. On the curved walls above him, nestled in the dark against the decrepit stone, green eyes stare down at him. 

A lapse in his concentration and Dean is almost pulled down underneath the current of bodies again; it takes him but a second to regain himself and when he looks up again, it’s not green eyes he sees, but shards of green reflected against the wall. 

The reflections dance and play across the curved, crumbling tile. He cranes his head, watching them resplendent against the grime. He watches as the current of bodies carries him forward for a long moment before he realizes. 

Light!

Dean scrambles in the mess of bodies, pushing towards the source of light that birthed a thousand emerald butterflies, fluttering against the dark. He pushes equal measures with and against the current, trying to head towards the source. 

The claws dig more into his flesh, ripping small chucks of fur from his haunches but still Dean pushes towards the left. Coming up he can see another long strip of yellow tile. 

Another exit. 

He knows he has to time this right; Dean lets the crush and frantic sway of moles carry him forward when he’s as far left as he can go. The closer the yellow platform gets, the more Dean tenses, ready to pounce. He figures he has one shot, not sure if he’ll be so lucky as to find another exit in the constricting darkness of the tunnel. 

When the moles push him forward, up against the grinding side of the platform, Dean throws his paws up, claws scraping against the slick tile looking for purchase. 

The curve of his claws catch on the under side of a shattered tile, as he tries his weight it lifts up a little more from the grout beneath it. He’s not sure if it’ll support his weight, but he does know his chances are better if he tries than if he doesn’t. 

Kicking against the flush bodies against him, Dean slips on the first time and falls back into the crush of bodies. He’s at it again quickly, instinct ringing in his ears telling him _do it now, do it._

The second time he tries, his claws find a stronger crevice and the concrete holds him tight. It wants him out. He kicks at the bodies underneath him, the pain of the gashes runs up his hind quarters and he can feel his bottom half wet and slick with blood. 

Dean kicks off again from the river of moles and this time when he does he hears a snapping noise, bones breaking off from each other. The final kick is just enough to get himself free of the pack and up over on top of the platform. He clears the yellow tiles, limping as he goes. 

Green glass shards are scattered over the ground, stragglers hang from fixtures above him. For the first time since he has come to the city, Dean is thankful for the green. 

In the corner of the station, he curls up, inspecting the series of cuts and wounds he acquired from the stampede. There’s more blood than there is damage and Dean licks himself clean. Fragile pink shows from underneath the gold of his pelt, he can’t help but wonder if he’s seeing the man underneath the beast.

Dean knows what he is on the inside of this powerful form and in some ways it worries him, astounds him. He’s gotten into much more trouble in the last few weeks than he ever did a coyote. The city is full of dangerous things, things Dean can’t explain. Doesn’t think he wants to know the explanation for. 

Why does he want to stay? 

He can’t help but think of the desperate way Aidan kissed Richard, like he wanted to never let him go.

Dean forces the image from his mind and lays his chin down across his body, nose tucked under his tail. After what happened, he deserves rest. A few hours, and by then, Dean figures, there will be enough light to find his way back to the parking garage.  

When Dean realizes he didn’t even entertain the idea of leaving, especially after the catastrophic hunting trip, it makes him stop, think. Why? He told Aidan he could bring him back, but he hadn’t expected the night to go as it did. Any other time, Dean would leave. Get the Hell out of dodge when there were predators abound like the one he’d seen in the tunnel, and yet, he didn’t consider leaving. He wants to go back to that underground parking lot, to the wolves, to Aidan and Richard. 

He snorts, shaking his head of that thought. He notices its easier to see how dangerous a pack is, how dangerous the city is when he’s not around Aidan’s smile and his mess of curls and Richard’s impenetrable calm. Yet, he still wants to go back. Dean thinks of the wolf pile he’d been invited into and how Aidan feels like home.

It unsettles him so much he can’t rest as well or as long as he wants to. 

He waits until the bleeding stops before pushing himself up onto his feet again; it’s not as long as Dean expected. There’s a few dry clots here and there, but for the most part, he’s groomed himself golden again. 

With his legs aching, the stairs take Dean longer than he expects. He doesn’t spend as much time marveling the faded faces, memories long gone. He doesn’t line his nose up, pretend to know these people as he did on the way down. 

The sun is rising when he pulls himself to the top of the stairs, the warmth radiates through his fur and Dean can practically smell the sunshine on the air. It’s been too long since he has been a powerful, connected to the world like this. 

Like this, he hears the morning sing. He hears the chatter of insects, the secrets of the wind. Feels the womb of the world wrap around him, he is once more a child of the earth and he relishes in that. 

For he knows soon, he will be skinned. 

Dean steps further out from the shadow of the stairs, shaking off the remnants of the dark. With each step, his claws clicking against the concrete, light sparks underneath him. One paw twilight, the other dawn. It’s only his front paws that leave little suns on the sidewalk, and they fade when he’s a few feet ahead.

In the last few weeks, he’s seen enough strange things that his own shimmering paws, and glowing trail does nothing to phase him. 

Dean passes by a block, two, three, and slowly his surroundings begin to look familiar. He’s been in this part of the city before. Cautiously, he looks up towards the sky, clear and clean. Dean’s fur bristles, he expects the screaming of Raven any second. He saw the bird die, but stranger things have happened. What is the death of one body to someone who can shed his skin?

His pace picks up and his paws spark against the sidewalk, the light dancing around him, going as far as to cling and weave through his fur. They don’t burn, but he feels them warm through his fur. 

In his mind he pieces together the city carefully bit by bit, moment by moment in his memories. What he’s looking for is so close, he can smell it in the air. 

The sweetness of blood turned sour, old and dusty. Under the rot, he can still catch hints of life, the thrum of freshness. Something, that shouldn’t be there. 

Dean turns down a wide street and there, just as he remembers is the body of the large deer.  It remains, standing tall, large, and Dean now more than ever feels dwarved in comparison. It’s antlers have grown in hours, days, weeks since he has seen it last. They curve ever upwards, reaching and grabbing towards the light of the sun. The rest are drop tier, like roots, reaching ever downwards, framing the long face of the deer. But more importantly, those green, green eyes watching from the perversely, twisted drop tier roots that have become the bottom of the antlers. 

He approaches the beast slowly, circling around its eternal death. Locked in that moment that will kill it, but still it seems to live on. From where Raven ate at it, its skin has grown and stretched back over its spine, knitted itself back together with the barest hints it had been ripped away at all. The stretch of its skin is wide; the deer looks fat, healthy in a way it shouldn’t. If anything, Dean expected the Beast shriveled, starved.  

He can smell the blood, what drew him first to the deer and now back again. It leaks slowly down from where the street lamp spears its body, pulsing in slow, shallow waves from the wound. 

Its chest heaves and slowly, oh so slowly, it turns its head towards him. The antlers ring gently as they tap against the lamp post, it sounds like the conversation of metal and metal, a manmade song from an organic beast. 

As he approaches, Dean remembers walking so closely, tasting the sweet copper blood on the concrete. He remembers rending flesh from the deers body, greedy and hungry as he is.

But now, he’s wary, approaches slowly. His mouth floods the closer he gets and his stomach growls. He ate only hours prior, yet his body is hollow and instinct seeks to fill it. 

The deer looks down at him, its lips pull back along its snout into a smile that warms the air, but chills the marrow in his bones. It looks at him, _welcomes_ him, and he feels guilt rise like bile in his throat. 

He wants to devour the deer, taste its life, flood himself with it, but he knows someone is in there, wearing the wrong skin. He knows those green, green eyes. Beautiful and terrible, disastrous. Those green eyes that follow, follow, follow. The Deer’s gaze is a predator he cannot escape.

“Dean,” The dear speaks, its voice as hollow as it is full, horrible and inviting. It draws him in, Dean can’t help but move closer; he licks his chops as he does.  

He remembers the taste of flesh and blood and he wants. Close proximity comes with resurgence of instinct, desire. 

“Dean,” The deer repeats, his body heaving. “I’ve been waiting for you.”


End file.
